Brad was slowly beginning to realize that real-life didn't exactly play out the way it would in a movie. After breaking in through the small bathroom window in back, he figured that Archie would soon be arriving home, where he could follow through with his plan to exterminate him, and whoever else was unlucky enough to be with him.
Granted, Brad's plan wasn't the best in the world. He found it extremely hard to do anything without a writer and director telling him, even though he often tried to convince himself otherwise. If this were one of his movies, the action would have already taken place, all problems would be solved and he'd have another one-hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.
But alas, reality was a hard lesson to learn. He sat there on the bed for hours, wearing his ridiculous OJ gloves and thinking of huge plot holes in his plan. What seemed so perfect this morning was now a total shit idea and he knew it.
This is what happens when Brad Jackson tries to think for himself. He needed a writer to help him come up with a plan. He decided to talk to his associate. Together they would think of a much better plan than sitting here in the dark like a fucking moron for hours upon hours. After watching an info-mercial for a product he would actually end up ordering when he returned home, he turned the television off and stood up.
"God damn it," Brad said out loud. "Fuck this. I'm Brad Motherfuckin' Jackson! I don't need this!"
He made his way back to the bathroom and attempted, once more, to squeeze through the tiny little window above the toilet and out into the dark alley behind the motel. While trying to squeeze through, he hit his head twice, ripped his three-hundred-dollar shirt and scraped his hands and left knee on the asphalt below, after losing his balance and taking a rather comical fall, complete with a rather girly, nancy-boy scream. He quickly sat up and looked around to make sure no one heard the pathetic noise that escaped him during his embarrassing four-foot fall. He was in the clear. While sitting in the alley, rubbing his knee like a child with a rug burn, it dawned on him that he could have just walked out the front door.
"Damn blast it!"
27.
When I was little, I remember my dad bringing me to the beach every summer. I used to love it. I would play out in the water for hours, riding the waves on my boogie-board, playing in the sand and getting dirty. I don't understand it. My condition made me a lot worse when I was younger. Since I have grown up I have learned to deal with much of the stuff that would afflict me so badly when I was a kid. I have learned to deal with certain aspects of my personalities and my fears, but at the same time, I've lost a lot along the way.
I'm thinking about this now as the ocean comes into view from the freeway we are currently traveling on. The sea looks never-ending and I know that my younger self wouldn't be able to contain his excitement about getting in there and playing, while the current me is scared to death of it. It’s funny how things work like that, I guess.
We actually got an early enough start leaving LA so we arrived back at the motel before noon. On the way back in, Elise and I decided that we would give ourselves two more days to come up with a solid lead on the case, and if we couldn't do it, we would simply walk away. She had been away from her kids now for too long, and she felt bad for saddling Jamie with the responsibility. We had been taking turns charging our phones with the car charger, so Elise removed her phone and plugged mine back in so she could call and check in, and while Jamie insisted she wasn't being put out by watching them, Elise still felt bad and assured her it would only be two more days. Even if we had to drive back home and work from there for a while, we would. All this case was doing was frustrating the piss out of me and costing me way too much. The sad fact was, again, that even if we nailed Brad Jackson, chances are he would walk and it would be all for nothing and I would have a new mortal enemy to add to my list. It’s sad to have to think of it like that, but it was the hard truth. American celebrities can do no wrong. They were untouchable, for the most part, especially in big cases like this one would sure to be.
We got out of the car at the motel and headed for our room. I was still feeling defeated and was pretty down on myself. I was missing something and I knew it, but I couldn't even figure out what it was. Usually, some dark area of my brain would flash me images of something that sometimes seemed totally random, but would somehow make the puzzle pieces fit. This time I had nothing. All my brain was willing to do was drive me crazy with that goddamn Too Close for Comfort theme song...over and over and over...
I took the keycard from my wallet and slide it into the door, waiting for the unlock sound, that came after the fourth try. Ugh, nothing is going to go easy for me. I stepped inside the room and immediately knew someone had been in there. I checked the outer doorknob to make sure the Do Not Disturb sign was still there. It was.
The remote control was sitting on the edge of the bed when we had left. I remember putting it there specifically when I had turned off the television before we left for LA. Now it was sitting on top of the TV. Something I never ever do...but I know who did.
I did a quick spin in the room, which probably looked ridiculous to Elise (I‘m pretty sure my arms flailed a bit too wildly to still be called a man), just to make sure no one else was in here. I peeked my head in to the bathroom and noticed the window above the toilet was opened just a crack. Another thing that was not as we left it.
"Someone was in here"
"What, who?"
"I think it was Brad Jackson. Holy shit!"
"Wait. What? Slow down."
"Seriously, I think Brad Jackson was in our room. Probably waiting for us to get back."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look," I said. "I left the remotes on the edge of the bed. I remember this. Right here." I pointed to the exact spot. "I remember it as plain as day. Now, look. They are sitting on top of the television."
"Okay, so what? Maybe the maid did it."
"Come on, Elise. If the made did it, don't you think she would have made the beds and straightened up a bit." I was now finally able to return the eye-roll and head-shake look that she had given to me so plentifully over this past week. I must admit, it felt pretty good. Not gonna lie.
"Okay okay, good point. But why was it Brad Jackson?"
I explained to her about how he kept his remotes on top of his television at home. He must have sat down on the bed on top of them, waiting for us. Then he just moved them to the TV out of habit. Or maybe he was watching TV because he got bored waiting. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
"And look, the window is open a crack. We haven't touched that window all weekend. I didn't even think it opened!"
I could tell by the look on her face that Elise was finally starting to think that strange things were afoot here at the Circle K.
"But why would Brad Jackson break in to our motel room?" she asked.
"Because he knows we're on to him! You know this! Holy shit! We've got to get out of here. We're not safe here anymore."
I grabbed a few clean clothes, but left all my dirties and the suitcase there. Elise grabbed all her stuff. As long as we left something in the room, if he came back, it would appear we were still staying here. I ran up to the front desk, (And by ran, I mean Walked Briskly,) and told the manager that we would be staying for two more nights. I handed him my credit card, he ran it and thanked me as he handed it back. I walked back towards Elise.
We got in the car and drove up the street a little way and checked in at a small place called The Palomar Inn. This trip truly was costing me a fortune. Dislike!
Anyway, our room was eerily similar to the room we just left at the last place. Two beds, a TV, fridge and a bathroom. Just the basics, but it suited our needs perfectly.
I grabbed the remote and was pleased to discover that they, too, had the RTV channel. Dragnet was playing. Exactly what I needed to help me think.
As I sat there and watched, I could feel my adrenaline start to flow again. I could feel my
heart beating and a smile form on my face. It was exactly what I needed. Hands down proof that I was not insane and that I was barking up the right tree. And with the fact of Brad Jackson knowing we were on to him just made it that much better. My touch of danger. I don’t care how stupid that sounds.
"Okay, first things first," I said to Elise. "We have to figure out our starting point. We can go one of two ways, I think. We can go back to the old motel and stake it out. See if he returns. If we do, we call the cops and tell him we have a break in. I cannot imagine the cops busting Mr. Hollywood would be very good publicity for him and I'd imagine he would have a lot of explaining to do. Especially since he was breaking into the room of someone he just filed a formal complaint against."
"Sounds like it could be fun."
"Or! We go balls deep in this thing and stake out his house again. Try and find Daniel Mayweather and any other shit we can uncover."
"That sounds like a pretty flimsy plan. Got anything to go along with that one?"
"Actually no. That one we would just play by ear and see where it takes us. Could be fun. I'm just sick of waiting around and doing nothing. We have hit one dead end after another and I'm sick of it. Somewhere out there, someone is missing a wife, mom or daughter, because of this asshole Hollywood prick. We have to find out who she is. Soon. I assume it’s Daniel’s girlfriend, but we have to be sure. We have two days before we have to be back home, remember? It’s your call."
Elise stood against the wall for a few seconds deciding which course of action we should take. Finally, she spoke up. "How about we do a little of both?”
"How so?"
"Well, let’s call the Pismo police again, tell them we saw Brad Jackson break into our motel room. It probably won't get us anywhere, and they'll probably laugh at us and tell us to go F ourselves, and that's fine. As long as we make the complaint, it will have to be filed. If you don't trust them that much, we can always record the conversation, just in case."
"Not bad. Keep going."
"Okay, well, after we file the complaint, then we go stake out his house. By filing the complaint we kind of cover our asses a bit incase anything happens with the complaint filed against us."
"How do you figure that?"
"God, I don't know. It just sounded good. You're the detective. You tell me."
"Okay, fine. Here's the deal. You call and make the report of him breaking in here. Call the captain. Steve, whatever."
"They were all named Steve."
"Yeah, you're right. What was that assholes last name? Gibson?"
"That sounds right."
"Okay," I continued. "Call Captain Gibson and file you're report. We'll record it since he probably won't take it seriously. That way we'll have proof of it in case it comes in handy somewhere down the line." I barfed out another immature little giggle. "Handy."
"Stay focused, Arch."
"Okay, we make the call. Then we head down to the cliffs and watch his house. We need to find any sign what-so-ever of Daniel Mayweather being there. We have to leave Brad alone for now and focus all our attention on finding Daniel. He is the link. If we can get to him, I think, we can get to the bottom of this shit-heap we're in."
"Okay, then what do we do when we find him?"
"We'll think of something. A few months ago, I broke a guy’s nose with my gun and threw him in his trunk. I think we'll be fine. I'm getting pretty good and pissed off over this whole goddamn case, too. Somebody is going to have to face my wrath eventually. It may as well be this pretty boy."
"Be careful, though. He might enjoy it."
"Hey now, what do you mean by that?"
"You know exactly what I mean, big stud."
"Oh come on! No I don't."
"I'm just saying, the guy does work in a gay bar..."
"We've gone over this. Just because he works in a gay bar doesn't mean he's gay."
"Well, I don't know too many straight guys that would even know to go in there and apply for the job in the first place. Just sounds a little fishy to me, is all."
"Fine, your point is well taken. Let's go pick up some lunch and eat it at the park on the cliff. Grab the binoculars, too."
"Got 'em. Let’s go."
We grabbed our stuff and headed out the door.
As we walked out to the car, I got a feeling flowing through my body that I hadn't had for over half a year. It felt like bugs were crawling under my skin, my vision began to tunnel and I felt light-headed. It was usually a sign that something was very close, that the puzzle was soon to be completed, (or that I was a meth-addict…pretty sure it was the first choice, though.) I just needed to figure out what I was missing. As I closed and made sure the door was locked, I knew that tonight, regardless of the outcome, would be our final night on this case.
PART THREE:
DEATH AND ALL HIS FRIENDS
28.
We picked up a couple of eggplant sandwiches from a tiny deli on the main drag through town and brought them down to the little park on the edge of the cliff, where all of this started. It proved to be a mistake, as the food was extremely difficult to eat on a park bench. Shit kept falling out of my sandwich on to my lap. It wasn't a very proper sight. I looked like a bum. Oh well.
We finished our sandwiches and decided it was time to make the call to Captain Gibson. Elise got the number for the police department on her phone, dialed, then set it to speakerphone so I could listen in and record the conversation with my phone. I hit the record button as we listened to Elise's phone ring.
"Pismo Beach Police Department," a female voice answered.
"Yes, I need to speak to Captain Steve Gibson there. Is he available?" Elise asked.
"I'm sorry ma'am, but he is out of his office right now. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I'm afraid not. I have important business with the Captain that I need to clear up as soon as possible. My name is Elise Reynolds and we took a meeting with him the other day, about a homicide..."
"I see," the lady on the other end of the line said. "Would you like me to patch you through to him?"
"That would be great. Thank you."
"There is no guarantee that he will answer, but it is worth a try. You say this is about a homicide?"
"That's correct, yes."
"Very well. Please hold the line."
"Thank..." Elise said, but she was cut off by some crappy music. I can't believe police stations have music on their hold lines. Seems funny to me.
A few seconds later the music cut out and the line started to ring.
"This is Captain Steve Gibson," the man answered.
"Captain. This is Elise Reynolds. We met the other day. We came to you with a homicide and you blew us off. Remember."
A loud sigh came through the speaker towards us. "Yes, I remember, we've got a complaint against you, you know. It seems you broke..."
Elise cut him off. A ballsy move, if I do say so myself. "Captain, that is why I am calling, kind of. We have a complaint to file against Brad Jackson. We saw him break into our motel room yesterday, right through the bathroom window!"
"Oh brother, look, I don't have time for this shit. I have real police work to do and this is..."
Again, she cut him off. Awesome. "Look, CAPTAIN," She said the word captain with more sarcasm than I could even muster up if I were to say the latest Sandra Bullock shitfest was GOOD. I was impressed, again. Elise continued, "I don't care if you think it is a waste of time. A man broke into our motel room and you need to take this seriously. You are the police for God’s sake. And you probably should have taken our homicide report seriously, too, because when we solve this thing, like I said before, we will make sure your entire department catches shit for it. Got it?!"
You know she was pissed when the dreaded S word comes out.
"You are still working this?" he asked.
"You're goddamn right we're still work
ing this!"
Woah. S and GD. Shit was getting real, here.
"Look," she said, "we have a dead woman floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, and your little Hollywood boyfriend Brad Jackson put her there. We tipped our hand a little too early and now he knows we are on to him. Why else would he go through the trouble to find out our names, file a report, then find out where we were staying, and break in to our room? Doesn't any of this seem a little odd to you?"
"Very well, Miss..."
"Reynolds."
"Miss Reynolds. Tell me this; if you are going to solve this all by yourself, what are your leads? How are you going to solve a murder without a body? Please, Miss Reynolds, enlighten me."
A Touch of Danger (Archie Lemons #2) Page 14
